Pulse

ONE - PIPER

I burrow deeper into my denim jacket, the autumn chill nipping at any exposed skin. The sharp scent of freshly cut grass mingles with the distant roar of the crowd, a symphony of excitement that feels worlds away from my solitary perch in the upper deck. My eyes devour the words on the page before me, each sentence a lifeline in an ocean of noise.

Suddenly, thunderous cheers erupt, shaking the stadium. Feet stomp rhythmically, demanding my attention, pulling me from the safety of my literary escape. I blink, my focus shattered, as the real world crashes back in waves of sound and color.

"Go, Thunderbolts!" someone bellows.

Enough. I've lingered solely to scribble thoughts for my paper later, but this isn't the refuge I need. Not anymore. Slipping a bookmark between the pages, I stand, excuse myself past knees and coolers. A voice cuts through the din, a taunt meant for me.

"Hey, bookworm!"

I don't glance back. Let them have their fun. I've got worlds to explore, far from the jeers and the jocks.

The dugout awaits, a quiet alcove where the echo of the crowd dulls to a whisper. Perfect for losing myself once more in the story's embrace. Without another thought, I move forward, propelled by the promise of solitude and the sweet anticipation of what happens next in my book.

The field's shadow swallowed me whole. Roars from the stands bled into a distant hum, allowing the words on my page to sing clearer in my mind. I nestled into a forgotten corner near the dugout, the rough concrete cold against my back.

Flashlight flickered to life, a beacon in the dark. I angled it just right, letters dancing beneath its glow. The world shrunk down to the beam, my book, and the rhythmic thumping of my heart.

"Finally," I whispered to the silence, a soft exhale of relief.

As pages turned I sank deeper into the story, the protagonist's plight mirroring my own desire for escape, for something more than—

A scream shattered the night.

My flashlight wobbled. Shadows leaped. The scream, so raw and terrified, clawed up my spine, setting every nerve alight.

"Hello?" My voice trembled, betraying my calm facade. "Is someone there?"

No answer but the distant cheer, oblivious to the cry that had sliced through the darkness. My hands gripped the book like a shield as I strained to hear more.

Silence mocked me, heavy and absolute. A shiver raced across my skin. Not from the chill, but from the unknown.

Then, another scream—louder, closer, frantic. I peeked over the top of my book, heart hammering against my ribcage.

A woman burst into the sparse light from the field, her clothing torn, desperation etched into every exposed inch of her flesh. She stumbled, half naked and wild-eyed, clawing at the air as if she could pull herself forward by the sheer force of her terror.

"Please!" Her voice cracked, a symphony of raw fear and shattering dignity.

Behind her, shadows morphed into men, drunk on power and alcohol, their laughter a grotesque harmony to her pleas. They taunted her, voices thick with cruel mirth as she tripped on nothing but panic.

"Stop," she sobbed, collapsing onto the grass. The tears that followed were a waterfall of broken pleases, each drop reflecting the stark stadium lights.

My hands shook. I glanced back to the crowd in the stands—a sea of noise and movement, too engrossed in the game, too far from this dark corner where humanity withered.